Theirs
by wheelchick
Summary: Because I had to relieve the heartache a little bit, this is my version of Brennan's homecoming. Post-season 7. A little angst, a little fluff, a lot of authorial catharsis. Strong T for language and sexual imagery. Complete.
1. Prologue

_I like angst. Really, I do. But this is an awfully angsty hiatus and I need to be distracted from studying for my Ph.D exams in a big, fluffy, happy way. This is me skipping ahead to the reunion we all hope/know is coming eventually...though there may be some retroactive angst..._

_It was originally going to be a considerably longer one-shot, but then this happened. Now I'm thinking 5(ish) chapters._

_Alas, these characters do not belong to me._

* * *

He had butterflies in his stomach as he pulled into their driveway. _Their driveway._

He hadn't seen or heard from Temperance Brennan or the baby girl she had taken with her for over three months. It had been complete radio silence. Max Brennan had disappeared a few hours after his daughter and granddaughter, and Booth had been left to fend for himself. With everything that had been going on, Rebecca thought it best to keep Parker in London for the summer. Booth couldn't really fault her for it, but it did mean that he had been excruciatingly alone, the people he loved scattered to the four winds. In the short span that he had actually had the family he'd always wanted, the 'mighty hut' he had found and renovated with his own hands had become an honest to goodness home. _Their home._ And no matter how empty and cavernous it now felt, no matter how far away his happy memories of it seemed, he would always, _always_ think of it that way: as theirs. She hadn't abandoned him. She would be back. They would be a family again.

Today, for the first time, that longed for return was actually possible.

They hadn't succeeded in putting Pelant away yet; he was still there, taunting them all, just out of reach. But Angela had been able to prove that the video placing Brennan at the hospital had been doctored. That, combined with some particulate evidence Hodgins found in the trunk of Brennan's car, proving that Ethan Sawyer's DNA had been planted there, was enough for the charges against Brennan to be dropped. Nobody––not even Flynn––now doubted that she had been framed; they just couldn't prove who had done the framing.

It was enough, for now, because it meant Booth's girls could finally come out of hiding. They could be together. _He_ could protect them from here on out.

He had rushed to his SUV as soon as Caroline had given him the news. The squints were going to celebrate at the Founding Fathers, a brief respite after the endless hours they had put in over the past months. They would get back to the grind tomorrow, working to nail Pelant for good. Booth knew they deserved to celebrate, and part of him even knew that he should be there celebrating alongside them. But the only thing he could think of when he got word was that he had to go home. _Their home._

It was completely irrational, he knew. He had long since internalized Bones' voice, and it had prattled on inside his head as he drove.

_It is completely unreasonable to expect us to resurface less than an hour after a change in my fugitive status and even less reasonable to expect me to physically materialize in our house so quickly. First of all, how would I even know about these most recent events? Second, as the warrant was issued in DC, you can be sure that we are neither in the District of Columbia nor in the surrounding states, where the search for us would logically be conducted more vigorously. In fact, the most likely scenario is that we have fled the country entirely, perhaps on board a small plane piloted by a former associate of my father. It will take some time before we can make it back. You must be patient and consider the situation rationally. I fear that you will only distress yourself further if you continue with these implausible fantasies of immanent reunion._

He shook his head slightly, a sad smile creeping across his face. As was so often the case, Bones (even his inner Bones) was right. Though he did think Max would be keeping an eye on developments in the case, they couldn't be expected to pop up at a moment's notice.

He did _try_ not to get his hopes up, knowing that his (metaphorical) heart would be crushed just a little bit more if he did.

But try as he might, he still had butterflies in his stomach as he pulled into their driveway.

* * *

_And how are we feeling, people?_


	2. Of Hope and Waiting

_Thank you to the reviewers for the kind words of encouragement! I guarantee this chapter would not be up so soon were it not for you. I probably won't update for a few days, though. Bleh, grant application, bleh._

_I'm thinking I still have 3 chapters to go, probably of roughly this length. But before we can get our favourite couple/family back together again, I think a little wallowing is in order..._

* * *

By the time he put the black Sequoia in park and turned off the engine, he was actively telling himself to calm the hell down. _Just get a freakin' grip_. This was becoming ridiculous.

_They aren't there. You're going to open the door to an empty house, same as you do every day._

With his hands clutching the steering wheel, he forced himself to lean back against the seat, close his eyes, and take a deep breath. This wasn't a question of relaxation––truth be told, he couldn't remember the last time he had actually been relaxed. Devastated? Yes. Exhausted? Yes. Adrift? Absolutely. But relaxed? Most assuredly not. Most days he had to remind himself to breathe at all, as though his body had forgotten how to function without her, without them.

No, this moment was about self-preservation, about counteracting the hope that had started to seep into his bloodstream. He needed hope, of course. These days, hope was the only thing allowing him to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Hope meant survival, but he had to be careful not to let it get out of hand. Hope run amok could crush a man.

He'd seen it over and over again in his work with Bones: parents, spouses, lovers, friends, people who had convinced themselves that nothing bad had happened to their loved one only to find themselves in Booth's office after remains had been identified. It was all in the eyes. First they would widen in shock, and then they would glaze over and dull, like all the light had gone out from behind them. Tears or no tears, sobs or stoicism, eyes like that meant one thing: something inside had broken. Permanently. And it was all because of hope.

As they had all worked to get Brennan and Christine back, breaking had been a luxury Booth couldn't afford, and he'd be damned if he was going to break now that the charges were dropped, now that all he had to do was wait for them to surface.

So he took a deep breath. And another. And another. He took as many as he had to to get his hope back in check and bring his heart rate back down to normal. He sat with his eyes closed until his runaway hope had been replaced by a customary sense of dread. He hated opening their front door to emptiness, as he'd done for the first time so many months ago. It made him feel nauseous and small and painfully alone. Most days he tried to avoid those feelings as much as he could. He'd be sure to be on the phone when he opened the door or humming a song he'd just heard on the radio. He'd try anything to avoid the ache and the silence. But today? Today he wrapped himself in the knowledge of those impending feelings; today they were his protection against himself.

By the time he rounded the SUV and headed for their front steps, he had willed himself back into control. His hope safely tucked away, he calmly readied his house key in his hand. It went in with its usual ease and a simple click signaled the moment of truth.

Another deep breath. A gentle shove on the door. And…nothing, just as he had foretold.

No lights. No sound. No purse by the door. No toys on the floor. Nothing.

Not a damn thing.

_Welcome home, Booth._

He sighed and shook his head. _Told ya. _His keys landed with a plop in the bowl where they belonged; the door closed with a clack, the noise a little more emphatic than usual perhaps, but not much. After resetting the alarm, he shrugged out of his suit jacket, hung it on the banister, and eased himself down to sit on the stairs facing their entryway. With phone in hand and shoulders slumped, he stared at the door and waited.

This was admittedly out of the ordinary. Booth was a man who liked to be in motion; he liked to _do_ things, and as far as he was normally concerned, waiting did not constitute an activity unto itself. Waiting was the opposite of doing. It was a vacuum, a vacuum that tended to fill with thoughts of self-loathing and self-pity and self-doubt. He usually avoided these kinds of lulls like the plague, especially when he found himself at home. He would blast music or yell at the TV; he would BBQ or tighten a dripping faucet; he would work on his slap shot or hone his right hook; he would work the case.

But today was different. Today waiting had become a herculean task, demanding his undivided attention. He didn't put away his guns or do a security sweep; he didn't even turn on the lights or untuck his shirt. He made it past the door without too much trouble, but now he found himself rooted to his newfound perch. There was nothing to do but wait: wait for a knock, for a text, for a phone call.

So he waited as the sun set and darkness enveloped him. He waited as his stomach grumbled in dissatisfaction and his back protested his choice of seating. He waited as his demons came out to play.

_Maybe dropping the charges isn't enough. Maybe she doesn't think you can protect them. Maybe something's already happened to them. Maybe she doesn't want to come back at all. Maybe they're happy where they are._

"No."

He waited as he chased his demons away.

He waited…until his phone rang.

* * *

_Cliffhangers are evil...Wanna tell me about it? Behold, the review button!_


	3. Spent

_Okie dokie, this was more fun than writing a grant proposal (Now there's a shocker!), so I am updating earlier than anticipated. It's a little more angsty than I thought it would be, but I hope you like it._

_Next update on Tuesday._

_I don't own Bones. *tear*_

* * *

"Bones?" He answered the phone in his hands before the second ring, never glancing at the caller ID.

"Um…No, man. It's just me."

"Hodgins." There was a hollowness to Booth's voice that made the entomologist wince. His friend and colleague hadn't sounded quite this dejected in months. This was not going to be an easy conversation, and Hodgins suddenly wished he and Angela had gone over to the house like they had originally planned. Then again, he didn't really want to be within shooting distance after delivering this particular message either.

To his credit, Booth made an effort to rally his spirits, both for his own sake and to save Hodgins from the awkward silence that was rapidly engulfing them.

"What's up, Bug Man? The Founding Fathers not quite the same without me or do you need someone to take Sweets home in time for his Star Trek reruns?" Booth didn't think so few words had ever required so much energy.

"Don't worry, we'll keep an eye on Sweets. We cut him off after his second beer." An audible gulp came over the line. "Actually, I was calling because I…I-I have a message for you. From Max."

His body reacted before his brain. Leaving his seat on the stairs, Booth leapt up and started pacing the width of their entryway, flipping the light switch on his second pass. The movement of his legs seemed to stir his mind, but there were too many ideas zinging around his head to form a coherent thought.

On the other end of the phone, Hodgins was getting increasingly anxious––Angela's quizzical frown was not helping matters. When he couldn't take it anymore, he hesitantly ventured, "Booth?"

Booth stopped in his tracks.

"If you've had a way to contact Bones this whole time, Hodgins, I swear to God…" He was aiming for threatening, but his voice sounded so fragile, he couldn't even finish his sentence.

"I didn't, Booth. I still don't. I'm just a guy who got a text."

"A text from Max," he replied with a little more force.

"Well, not directly. Apparently, there's some overlap between those of us who know the truth about Big Brother and Max's old connections. But yeah, a text from a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy who knows Max."

"So you know some conspiracy nuts who live off the grid and rub elbows with a bunch of ex-cons."

"Yeah."

By this point it was clear to Booth that he wasn't going to like whatever the hell it was the text actually said. If this was how Max had seen fit to reach out, it meant he was still taking pains to cover their tracks. It meant Booth was going to be on his own a little while longer. _I want my family back, Max. It's time._

"What's it say?" Booth finally asked on a sigh.

Hodgins reached out and squeezed his wife's hand, needing to have her close as he delivered this blow. "I'm so sorry, man. They're not coming home. Not until Pelant is put away."

He could only grunt in response, feeling like he'd just gotten a swift kick in the gut. He'd seen it coming, but it still knocked the wind out of him.

"I'm gonna send you a copy of it now, okay?"

"Yeah, okay." And he hung up, not having the strength to deal with the pity in Hodgins's voice.

With no reason to watch the front door any longer, Booth migrated to the living room, finally loosening his tie and untucking his shirt as he went. He collapsed on the sofa just as a beep signaled that the Bug Man had made good on his promise.

_Every1 safe. Watching progress. Will stay underground for now. Get P. T&C send love. –Max_

Maybe it was the months of stress and exhaustion or maybe it was just too much disappointment for one day, but Booth lost it. He was positively livid.

Who the fuck was Max to keep his family from him? He understood why they had had to run in the first place––he didn't like it, but he understood it. This was something else entirely. This was leaving him out to dry. Max didn't want them to come to him? Fine, he could go to them now that he didn't have to arrest Brennan on sight. But no, Max hadn't given him that option. He was just supposed to keep on keeping on with no hint that he'd have any more contact with Bones and Christine than he'd had since they'd left.

_T&C send love._

What the fuck was that? Didn't he deserve more than some lame ass text care of the bug and slim guy and Bones' father? Didn't he at least deserve a picture of his baby girl and an 'I love you' from Bones herself?

Enough. He'd had enough.

Fighting the urge to smash his phone against the wall, he stormed off in the direction of his 'man cave.'

He'd been living in it since the day Bones had driven off with Christine. The room had originally been intended as a sanctuary from the female idiosyncrasies that were to overwhelm him, but now it proved to be a refuge from the reality of his girls' absence. He couldn't face the nursery and the thought of sleeping in their bed alone made him sick to his stomach. So after the FBI had finished searching their house, he had taken all his clothes out of their bedroom and moved into the man cave. It had everything he needed: a pullout, a closet, a TV, a stereo, his weights, and his punching bag.

It was this last item that was beckoning to him now. Once the guns were put away and his suit replaced by a T-shirt and sweats, it was time to unleash all the rage that had come roaring to the surface. No gloves. No wraps. Just fists and the bag. He hit it over and over again, until his knuckles were shredded and his arms felt like lead, until all the anger––at Pelant, at Max, and yes, at Bones––was out of his system. He hit it until he was physically and emotionally spent.

A shower, some cold pizza, and a few shots of whiskey and beer chasers later, Seeley Booth was dead to the world, sleeping more soundly than he had since before his daughter was born. He was all out of worry and pain and anger, so he let sleep take him far away, where, if he was lucky, he'd snatch a little bit of happiness in a dream.

He gave himself over to this so completely, in fact, that he didn't awaken, as he normally would, at the sound of a key unlocking the front door or the soft creak of that fourth stair or the muffled footsteps in the hall.

No, he didn't even move a muscle when Temperance Brennan stood in the doorway to his man cave, tears in her eyes and a baby carrier in hand, watching him sleep.

* * *

_Alors, mes amis?_


	4. An Anthropological Imperative

_I am overwhelmed by all the story alerts and encouraging reviews._

_I found this chapter quite tricky for some reason. Maybe that's why it's so much longer than the others; the less I know what I'm doing, the more words I use. I hope you still make it through okay. ;)_

_Don't own Bones._

* * *

Temperance Brennan had become intimately acquainted with the breadth of her father's questionable network. She had always suspected it to be vast—how else could he have vanished without a trace for so long?—but now she knew it to extend into the brightly-lit halls of government as well as the dark recesses of the criminal world. When she had decided to run, she had imagined dingy motels and rusty cars, back-alley dealings and crude disguises. In short, she had imagined an existence completely cut off from the life she knew. Instead, she had found herself shuttled from place to place with efficiency, sophistication, and a surprising amount of comfort. They had moved regularly but not so often as to be overly taxing—exhaustion for the sake of exhaustion did nobody any good. And far from hiding in dank rooms that rented by the hour, they had mostly stayed in people's homes, posing as long-lost cousins swinging by for a visit. Truthfully, the whole situation had unnerved her: it was like she was still _in_ the world but no longer _of _the world, like she was there and not there at the same time.

It would have been so easy; she passed by phones and computers every day, each one begging her to reach out to her old life, to _him_. But she had followed her father's instructions to the letter, every one of them, until today.

She was confidant that Max had a number of sources at the Jeffersonian and even suspected that he had some sort of connection at the Hoover, as he regularly gave her updates on the status of the case. They had known when Angela made the breakthrough with the video, and it had been clear that Hodgins was close to something. So they had decided to stay where they were for a few more days, hoping the chance to go home was just around the corner. There had been little danger of being discovered on the small farmette just south of the Quebec border. The owners were a lovely couple (or seemed to be, at least); they were very good with Christine; and there was nobody around for miles. Max went out a few times a day to keep tabs on the situation in DC, but for the most part, they lay low, busying themselves with keeping the baby entertained and each other in good spirits.

It was on one of his information-gathering tours that Max learned, almost in real time, that the charges against his daughter had been dropped. The question was what to do now. It took him less than a second to make the decision: Pelant was still out there; Tempe and Christine were still in danger; they would stay out of reach. He sent a message through the grapevine, sparing a thought for the FBI agent who would no doubt receive it some hours later, and, having completed his recon mission, headed back to the house where his daughter and granddaughter awaited.

"I have good news and I have bad news," Max proffered, entering the cozy living room where Brennan currently sat, finishing a crossword.

She looked up at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue.

"Which do you want first?"

"The order in which you tell me has no bearing on the news itself."

Nothing was ever easy with her. "No, but it may impact your emotional response."

She nodded quickly in agreement before answering, "Good news."

"Okay then." Max's face broke out into a wide smile. "Congratulations, honey. You are no longer a fugitive of the US government."

The words were simple enough but somehow she had difficulty processing them. "What?"

"Hodgins came through. The charges have been dropped."

And suddenly she was laughing and crying all at once. She was free: free to go out without looking over her shoulder, free to make plans for Christine's future, knowing she could be a part of whatever that future might be. She was free to get back to her life, free to get back to Booth.

_Booth._

"I have to call Booth," she stated firmly, even as she moved towards the phone on the side table. How many times had she wanted to pick up the receiver just this way? Now she could do it. She could hear his voice. She could tell him all the things Christine could do now and how much they missed him. She could tell him she loved him.

She could ask him to forgive her.

But before she could listen for a dial tone, Max brought her musings to a screeching halt. "You can't do that yet, Temperance. That's the bad news."

"I-I don't understand." It was the voice of a lost little girl and it nearly broke Max's (metaphorical) heart. He wanted so much to spare her any more pain––she'd seen too much already, much of it because of him––but in the end, he would keep her safe no matter the cost.

"They dropped the charges but Pelant is still out there. It's still not safe for you to go home. I'm so sorry, honey."

"But Booth…I have to…He'll expect me to…" A very different kind of tear now rolled down her face.

"I know. I know, honey. I already sent him a message. It's okay. Everything is gonna be okay," he soothed, rubbing her back in a circular pattern.

Under different circumstances Brennan would have reminded her father that he had no way of knowing what lay ahead, but she needed his confidence just then. She wanted so badly to believe he was right.

A few minutes later, when she had collected herself, she broke the silence that surrounded them. "What did you say in your message?"

"That you were safe. That we would monitor the situation but that we would stay away for now."

As she listened to Max's reply, images of Booth flooded her mind. She pictured him waiting impatiently for her to contact him, waiting for the family she'd ripped away to return. And she knew: whatever message Max sent would never be enough. She had wounded Booth when she left with Christine, maybe even caused irrevocable damage, but she believed he would come to understand it. She did not think he would understand this. She had been the one left behind once, and she was haunted by the knowledge of what that did to a person.

No, he would not forgive her if she stayed away now. She would not forgive herself.

"I won't do this to him. We have to go home," she declared with conviction. It was the tone of voice she used when she'd reached a conclusion in the lab: unwavering and unquestionable. And it sent a chill down Max's spine.

She had ceded to all his plans and demands since they'd been on the road. She didn't know the first thing about being a fugitive. But he did, and she trusted him to do right by her, by them, in this. She learned quickly; she improved dramatically; but she had remained firmly in the role of pupil.

No more.

"Pelant will be waiting for you. He'll keep coming after you until he gets what he wants. It's not safe for you." He played his trump card. "It's not safe for Christine."

Something like hesitation flashed in her eyes at that, but she steeled herself anew. "They will catch him. _We _will catch him. Objectively, we have a better chance of doing so if I am working on the case with them. We can protect ourselves at home in the meantime by continuing to employ many of the same methods we have been using for months."

She responded to logic? He would use logic against her. "We need to approach this rationally. No matter how many half-measures you put in place, you will never be as safe as you are now. The second Pelant knows where you are, you're at risk, and you know it."

"I do. But you are assuming that safety is my primary concern."

He baulked at that. "How could it not be?"

"Booth's emotional and mental well-being is my chief priority at the moment. I am willing to accept a certain amount of risk in order to see to it."

Part of Max was proud of his little girl, proud of her courage, of her strength, of her capacity to love. But mostly, he was terrified of what would happen if she got her way. "Booth is a tough guy. He's been doing okay," he ventured. "No gambling. Some drinking, but nothing too bad. He'll make it through this and I can guarantee you that _his _top priority _is _your safety."

"You've been keeping an eye on him?"

"Of course." Maybe he could win this after all.

She paused at that. Max was not wrong. Booth would be worried about their safety above all else, including his own needs and desires. But she was convinced they could do this. Now that she was no longer wanted by the system, they would be stronger together than they were apart. They could start to heal, to get back to the way things had been. The longer she waited, the harder it would be. Plus, hadn't Booth told her something about the best defense being a good offense?

"You don't know what it's like," she said softly. "I can't do this to him anymore. I can't stay away any longer than I absolutely have to. He needs his family back, Dad. I know."

And just like that, Max knew she had him. If he didn't know any better, he'd have said it was a low blow, bringing up the past like that. But this wasn't manipulation. She spoke the truth. She spoke from experience.

"Oh, Tempe," he sighed. "Next you're gonna tell me how much Christine needs her father…"

Brennan smiled wanly. "That is also true."

He stared into her blue-grey eyes a few moments longer, and then he finally relented. "Alright. We'll go home. But we are doing this my way."

She hurtled herself towards him with the kind of hug she used to give him as a child. "Thank you."

Doing it Max's way meant leaving as soon as Christine woke up from her nap, which suited Brennan just fine. She was less pleased that it also meant foregoing any communication with Booth prior to their arrival. If Pelant was keeping tabs on Booth, waiting for Brennan to resurface, it would be better if he thought she was still in hiding for as long as possible.

As they packed the car, readying for their trek south, Max couldn't resist teasing, "You know, some people might say this is bordering on the irrational."

"I suppose one could think of it that way," she answered in all seriousness. "But I think it is more appropriately understood in terms of an anthropological imperative."

"And what imperative would that be?"

"The family is an anthropologically meaningful unit in our culture, arguably the most meaningful. When that unit is disrupted, we naturally seek to restore its integrity."

"Ah," Max chuckled in response. "Yes, of course." And they finished their preparations without any further discussion.

It was just past 4 AM when they parked in front of the house. Brennan got out, unbuckled Christine's carrier, and headed for the door, Max right behind her with the diaper bag and Brennan's purse. The lights were on in the entryway––in most of the house, actually––but nobody came to welcome them back. Ushering their way through the door, Brennan quickly scanned the living room. _He must have fallen asleep with the lights on._

"I can take it from here, Dad," she whispered, not really paying attention to whatever it was he was doing.

"Okay. I'll see you tomorrow after I get everything settled."

She didn't bother to tell him 'tomorrow' was already here; in fact, she didn't bother replying at all. She only had one thing on her mind: _find Booth_.

She went about it methodically, going around room-by-room, turning off the lights when she had convinced herself Booth wasn't there. She made her way up the stairs and down the hall, until she and Christine found themselves in the doorway to the man cave, a few feet away from a sleeping Booth, sprawled across the pullout.

She was frozen in place, tears silently streaming down her cheeks, watching the rise and fall of his chest with each breath. When Christine shifted slightly in her carrier some time later, Brennan briefly considered putting her daughter down in her crib but then thought better of it. Booth would want to hold her.

_No matter how angry he is with you, he will want to hold her. And he will want to hold her now._

She willed herself into action.

Gently, oh so gently, she placed the carrier on the floor near the arm of the couch, climbed into bed with Booth, and woke him up.


	5. The Stuff of Dreams

_So the thing about cliffhangers: generally much more fun to write than to read. Hopefully this will make for my evilness! With all the build-up, I hope it doesn't disappoint. I was going for cathartic but not overly cutesy...I don't really do cutesy, if I can help it._

_I had originally thought to stop here, but I might be persuaded to keep going. (Hint hint.) Otherwise, I was planning to do a collection of one-shots, for which, incidentally, I will take prompts and/or suggestions should you be so inclined._

_Okay, I'll shut up now. ;)_

_Don't own Bones._

* * *

She had missed this.

Laying in bed next him, feeling his warmth, inhaling his scent, it all came flooding back in the most visceral way.

She had missed this, missed it so much it hurt.

A few months ago, this had been the most natural thing in the world, and she wouldn't have hesitated to reach out and touch him. He had been hers then, completely and unquestionably hers.

She hoped that was still the case. She was fairly confidant that it was, but for the first time in a long time, she felt anxious in his presence, anxious about them and their boundaries and his expectations. She didn't like it; they had danced that particular dance before.

There was only one way to banish that feeling. There was no turning back.

"Booth," she whispered.

She hovered a few inches over him, her fingers twitching slightly before she brought her hand to his face. It was all so familiar: the shape of his mandible, the feel of his stubble against her palm, the zing of excitement at the touch of his skin. "Booth, wake up. We're back."

She ran her thumb along his lower lip, extracting a small groan. Her anxiety dissipated with the sound, and Brennan leaned in ever so slowly, kissing him tenderly on the lips. _Home. I'm home._

For his part, Booth was trying his damnedest to linger in sleep just a little while longer.

He dreamt of her often. In fact, he had gone to bed that night hoping to dream of her exactly like this. Sometimes his dreams were of the four them––Bones, Christine, Parker, and him––going to the park or playing in the backyard. Sometimes they featured the most mundane of domestic tasks: Bones making a salad or getting Christine ready for daycare. Those were the family dreams, when he was a father again, living with the woman he loved.

Then there were the other dreams, the dreams that were decidedly not rated PG, the dreams that temporarily satisfied his craving for her skin, her mouth, her body…just…her.

As those dreams went, this one was starting out to be pretty tame, though Booth had to admit it was surprisingly realistic. They normally didn't have sound _and_ smell _and _touch _and_…taste.

When she kissed him again, more forcefully this time, he kissed back with interest. There was no way he was letting this opportunity slip him by. If his brain wanted to give him Surround Sound and Smell-O-Vision and everything else, he was sure as hell going to make it count.

So he kissed her with all the love and passion he could muster. He let his tongue tangle with hers and his hands rove the body he knew so well. It felt so good, so familiar, so…right.

His brain went on autopilot and he lost control of his movements. He felt her silky locks brush lightly against his face and suddenly his hand was fisted in her hair. His mouth worked the spot on her neck that drove her wild, and he didn't even realize it until he heard her moan.

By the time he found himself on top of her, he knew he was in serious trouble. As much as he lived for these dreams of her, the better they were, the more harshly reality came crashing down in the morning. And this was shaping up to be a _very_ good dream. _Dangerously good._

He struggled to take charge of his body and pulled back, propping himself up on his elbows, his forehead resting against hers.

Brennan's hands traveled soothingly across his shoulders to his nape, and between labored breaths, she whispered, "Open your eyes, Booth. It's okay. You can open your eyes."

His body stiffened at her words. _Could it be?_

"Just open your eyes, Booth."

And he did.

.

.

.

He could have sworn time stopped as his gaze met two wells of deep blue. The universe seemed to be holding its breath.

"Hi."

"Hi, yourself." His voice was still a little groggy but his eyes were clear. They looked down at her with a mixture of awe and confusion. "You're back."

It sounded more like a question than a statement, so she firmly replied, "We're back."

"Oh, thank God."

She couldn't have commented on the futility of thanking a mythological being even if she'd wanted too: he was holding her so tightly she could hardly breathe.

She wasn't about to complain.

Booth kept her crushed up against his chest for what seemed like forever. There was something reassuring in the feel of her body in his arms; it seemed like proof of something. _She's really here. This isn't your imagination. She came back. For you._

After a time, he finally managed to slightly loosen his grip and straighten out his thoughts. Blinking away the tears in his eyes, he tested his voice, "Where is she?"

It was barely audible but Brennan understood. He didn't hold her back when she moved to get up off the bed, though he felt a slight twinge when they broke contact. The feeling was short-lived.

It was quickly replaced by sheer relief at the sight of their daughter, slumbering peacefully in the carrier Brennan unceremoniously presented to him.

Nothing could hold back these tears.

There she was, completely oblivious to the strength of the emotions she was engendering and the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Had he forgotten? Or had she somehow become even more magical while they were away? Every fiber in his being wanted to hold her but he hesitated at the last second, not wanting to wake her up.

"Go ahead, Booth. Take her."

That was all the prompting he needed. He carefully took Christine and positioned her snugly in his arms. "Oh, Baby Girl, Daddy missed you," he whispered, placing a soft kiss on her forehead.

"She missed you too," Brennan answered for their daughter. "We both did."

Booth could only look up at her with a broad smile and joy in his eyes. He was fresh out of words just then.

"Do you want to put her down in the nursery?" she asked, her expression mirroring his.

He shook his head 'no' and scooched back across the pullout, motioning for Bones to join him.

So, with Christine tucked happily between them, they lay facing each other, their fingers intertwined. There was so much to say, but all they wanted to do was revel in the moment, staring silently into each other's eyes.

Brennan fought hard to stay awake, but eventually, she started to show signs of fatigue.

"Did you travel all night?"

"Yes. Max and I drove in shifts."

"Go to sleep, Bones." He brought their joined hands to his lips. "I'll be here when you wake up."

She sighed in agreement. "Are you angry with me?"

"Yeah," he answered honestly. Fear flashed in her eyes and he hastened to add, "But I'll get over it."

"I'm sorry."

"I know. Now go to sleep."

"I love you, Booth."

"I love you too, Bones."

And she slept.

And he felt whole again.

.

.

.

* * *

_All together now: *cleansing breath* aaaand relax. ;)_


	6. Epilogue, aka Wake Up Call

_Consider this a heartfelt thank you for all the support on my first fanfic foray! (Who doesn't love a little bit of aliteration?) Speaking of alerts and things, I will be updating some of the earlier chapters to get rid of some pesky typos. You may get emails when I do that; I suggest you ignore them._

_Ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, I give you: the morning after. I hope you like it._

* * *

Brennan awoke to the smell of French roast and the feel of his weight on the edge of the pullout. It took her a moment to process everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours, but it all came down to one simple and wonderful truth: _I'm home._ Her thoughts lingered briefly on the kisses and I-love-you's she'd shared with Booth before falling asleep, and she smiled to herself contentedly as she opened her eyes.

"Good Morning. Pleasant dreams?"

He knew that look; it usually made them late for work. _God, I've missed that._

"That was quite the wake-up call you gave me there, Bones," he replied––as if his sensibilities had been offended––presenting her with a cup of freshly brewed coffee.

"Mmmm," she teased back, sitting up and taking his offering. "I believe we may have some unfinished busi––Booth!" Her eyes suddenly went wide. "What happened to your hands?"

His knuckles. He'd forgotten about his knuckles. To be honest, he'd pretty much blacked out everything that had happened up until the moment he'd woken up to find Bones in his arms. He'd been more than happy to simply bask in the glow of his family's return; he figured there would be time to deal with the rest later. It had been so easy to forget all the anger and heartbreak as he watched Bones and Christine sleep next to him or as he calmed his daughter when she started to fuss. He went about their morning routine in a domestic haze of satisfaction. Even changing Christine's diaper seemed like a pleasant task. He was back to doing all the things he was meant to do, from dealing with baby spit up to making Bones' coffee.

But it seemed the happy fog was about to lift. _Leave it to Bones to latch on to this. _Morning sex looked to be off the agenda.

"Oh, you know," he hedged. "It's not a big deal."

"Did you by any chance beat someone to death last night prior to my arrival?"

"Funny, Bones. Funny. I just got a little carried away with my late-night workout." He cast a sidelong glance at his punching bag in the corner. "Like I said. No big deal."

"Booth…" She put her mug on the side table and gently reached out to inspect his battered hands. "This is why you have protective gear, is it not?" It would have come off as a reproof, but her voice was as soft as her touch. Somehow she knew this was important, and the less he wanted to talk about it, the more she knew she was right.

"Yeah, but sometimes you just wanna hit something, Bones. You wanna _feel_ what it's like to hit something. The gloves, they just get in the way." His fingers twitched slightly under the intensity of her gaze. She was examining him, trying to assess the damage, and he suddenly felt exceedingly vulnerable.

When she had satisfied herself that there was no structural damage or signs of infection, she turned her attention back to his face. It had a decidedly pained expression. He almost looked…ashamed.

"You were angry. Physical exertion can often serve as an outlet for strong emotions. I understand." She shrugged slightly, trying (and failing) to appear clinically detached.

"That sounds suspiciously like psychology, Bones." His attempt at lightening the mood fell flat, so he continued more matter-of-factly, "It doesn't mean I'm proud of it." He didn't like losing control like that, even if it was just beating the shit out of a punching bag.

"You did this because of me?" She was pretty sure she already knew the answer, but she still had to ask. Maybe it was the scientist in her.

He reclaimed one of his hands and dragged his fingers through his hair. "Look, Bones, I'm not gonna lie to you. The past few months haven't exactly been a walk in the park."

"I would imagine they were incredibly painful. Torture, even."

_Way to be blunt, Bones._

"They weren't fun," he repeated, taking back his other hand and getting up to pace. "I didn't know where you were, if you were safe, when you were coming back, _if_ you were coming back…I mean, Jesus Christ, Bones, you left me on the front steps of a fucking church minutes after our daughter's christening. How did you think I would feel?"

_Shit. _He hadn't meant to unload on her all at once; he had envisioned doing this with considerably more tact on his part. Tact was, after all, his area of expertise in their relationship. But once she got him going, it seemed he couldn't stop. _What the hell, how much worse can I make this?_

"I get it. I know why you did what you did. Hell, maybe you even did it for my benefit, but Bones, I swear to God, you almost broke me." He stopped pacing then, hands on his hips and a little out of breath from the torrent of words he had let loose.

She looked up at him silently from her seat on the bed, her blue eyes wet with tears. What could she say? The truth was she'd do it again, if she were faced with the same choices, and he knew it. All she could do was weather the storm. He said he loved her; that wasn't in doubt. He said he would get over it; she had to believe he would.

In the meantime, though, they still had Pelant to deal with, and that meant they needed to be at the top of their game. Now. She wasn't naïve enough to think they could get back to what they were in one conversation, but she had learned enough about being in a relationship to know ignoring what Booth had gone through, what she had done to him, would only make things worse.

She opened her mouth a few times to speak, only to close it again without uttering a word. They were stuck in some kind of silent standoff. Finally, she said the only thing she could think of to move the conversation forward. "What happened last night?"

She didn't argue with him or tell him her side of the story. She just asked him a question, and something about the simplicity of it sapped all the oomph out of his anger, like putting a pin to a balloon.

His body relaxed with a sigh and he reclaimed his seat on the edge of the pullout. This time it was his turn to take her hand. "I thought you'd come back once the charges were dropped, but then I got Max's message…"

"And it said we weren't," she finished for him. "I'm sorry. He should not have sent that without consulting me."

"What?" He was genuinely startled. "You mean he sent it without telling you?"

"He sent it before I even knew the charges had been dropped. Once he informed _me_ of my change in status, I informed _him_ that we were coming home. And here we are." She shrugged again. "Why? What did you think happened?"

"I-I don't know. I guess I thought you'd sent that message to throw Pelant off the scent."

"Well, that's why I didn't contact you again…" And then something clicked in her mind and she understood. "You thought I put you through that, through this," she said, bringing his wounded knuckles to her lips, "just to trick Pelant?"

"Sorta, yeah."

"Oh, Booth." She tucked her legs under her and kneeled beside him on the bed, cupping his face in her hands. "I know I've hurt you. I know you've been in terrible pain because of me, because of what I did, and I'm sorry you had to go through that. But I need _you_ to know that I never wanted to hurt you, that I would never hurt you unless absolutely necessary, and that the moment I knew I could come home, I did. Okay?"

"Okay." He smiled through his tears, a real smile that made his brown eyes sparkle, and took her all in. "I _am_ happy you're home, you know. Ecstatic, really. I just…I need time."

"Do you need time and space?" She gave him a sly grin, leaning in ever so slightly without waiting for an answer.

He chuckled ruefully. "No, Bones. I think I've had enough space to last me a lifetime."

When their lips met, they were transported to the wee hours of the morning, when they had reconnected, if only for a few minutes, before words and all-too-fresh pain had gotten in the way. They devoured each other feverishly, as though they could burn the months of anguish and loneliness from their memory with the strength of their passion.

When their respective T-shirts had been sent flying and Booth's mouth was making its way down to her breasts, her bra headed for the floor, Brennan had a flash. "Oh, no. No, no, no. What time is it?"

_Seriously?_ Booth couldn't help groaning in frustration. He looked up at the clock. "Eight thirty. Why?"

"My father is supposed to come by to discuss your plans for my security."

Max was so not his favorite person right now. _This is my goddamn security plan._ "How much time do we have?"

"Maybe an hour."

"Okay then."

"Wait! Don't you need to go to work?"

"Sick day. And before you ask, Christine is fine. The baby monitor is right here. Now can I just…"

She breathed, "Proceed," even as her body arched into his expert touch.

And with that, morning sex was very much back on the agenda.

* * *

_Fin_

_Happiness?_


End file.
